


Affectionate Investment

by MillieTheFreak



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eating, Fluff, Food, Humour, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Slash, sharing food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 12:59:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillieTheFreak/pseuds/MillieTheFreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John start to accidentally eat each other's food, and start feeding each other, much to the amusement and shock of their peers. Of course, it all feels natural to them, but one chocolate-covered thing can lead to another...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affectionate Investment

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this. For a long time, this was my most popular fic, and I wrote it for laughs.

**Affectionate Investment**

It had been a long, gruelling case that had taken well over ten days to solve- John had lost count, the days had all started blurring together. All he knew was that, while he had grabbed a bite to eat or a coffee whenever he could, Sherlock had run himself into the ground. Even Sally Donovan had looked worried as, when the murderer was apprehended and put in handcuffs, Sherlock had toppled forward into John's arms, and started snoring lightly against John's neck.

"Is he okay?" she asked, firmly directing the old man, who had been stabbing young boys and removing their pancreases, into a police car.

"Yeah, he's just exhausted," John had explained, propping up his dozing flatmate on one hip.

"Why? When did he sleep last?"

"Do you remember when he was waiting for Lestrade, kipping on his desk?"

"Yeah," Sally said slowly, frowning. "That was...Monday?"

"Yeah."

"You mean he hasn't slept since Monday?" she asked, looking at John in astonishment.

"No," John sighed. "He's going to be dead to the world for at least twenty four hours."

"But it's Thursday! How can he not have slept for three days?" she asked, perplexed. The murderer looked a little impatient, like he just wanted to get into the car, and not listen to the pair chatting.

"I dunno. It's been a long case. I think he slept the previous Wednesday, too. So, two naps for our consulting genius in ten days. Sometimes I wonder if he even has a brain, he's so stupid," John shook his head fondly, tipping Sherlock's head back to examine his face. Sherlock's mouth gaped open in his sleep, and he snuffled.

"Well, I'd get home if I were you. You're lucky- you don't have to file any paper work," Sally waved them goodbye, and John went to call a taxi, Sherlock, semi-conscious, not really helping, and dragging his feet whilst supported by his friend.

By the time they were in Baker Street, it was well past midnight, and John hoisted Sherlock up by the waist, and pulled him into Sherlock's bedroom, dumping him on the bed, pulling off his shoes and coat, and tucking the covers around him. Sherlock pressed his face into the pillows, and was promptly fast asleep.

John watched him for a second, wondering if it was really appropriate to start the blog entry  _now,_ when he really should get some sleep himself, before turning around and heading to his own bedroom. It would have to have a really catchy title- the best cases had the best titles, and Sherlock had been...well, it had been riveting to watch him. He had been amazing.

John realised he was gushing about Sherlock in his own head, like a teenage girl, and stopped himself, before pulling on his pyjamas, and going to sleep.

XXX

As John had predicted, Sherlock didn't awaken until the following day, just before the ten o'clock news. He strode out of his bedroom, bright and refreshed, smiling slightly.

"Wasn't that brilliant, John?" he asked. "What a brilliant case!"

John was sipping tea and watching the news. "Yes. Yes it was. I wrote it up. Be sure to read it."

"Oh, I will. I look forward to bad grammar, misplaced exclamation marks, and butchering of the English language!" he said cheerily.

John frowned, and surveyed his friend. He was pale, and still had dark bags under his eyes, despite the sleep. His hair was a mess, his face was sunken, and he was skinnier than usual- his shirt, although rumpled, was fitting normally, rather than straining to stay buttoned up. John also noticed that Sherlock's belt was done up a notch tighter than usual.

"You need to eat something," he said abruptly.

"I'll get a biscuit."

"Don't be ridiculous," John snapped. "I'm ordering Chinese. The usual?"

Sherlock hesitated, and nodded. "All right. I'm going to shower."

"That might be a good idea."

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting on the sofa, a veritable feast of takeaway cartons in front of them on the coffee table, and John was throwing liberal amounts of chow mein, Singapore noodles, dumplings, spring rolls, duck, beef, black bean vegetables, fried rice and deep fried chilli chicken wings onto Sherlock's plate.

Sherlock was channel hopping, but gave up the remote control in exchange for his food, and started shovelling it into his mouth with his chopsticks. John stopped the TV on some rather ridiculous James McAvoy film, and started watching (supervising) Sherlock eat, wondering how the man managed to look  _that_ sexy whilst cramming dumplings into his mouth, hoisin sauce going everywhere.

Unfortunately, they both got sucked into the film, and John didn't notice his hand sub-consciously reaching over, and snagging a spring roll off Sherlock's plate. John was a sane person- he ate regularly- so he hadn't bothered with a plate of his own, but still, he couldn't help it when he started picking the spring rolls off Sherlock's plate. Sherlock didn't particularly like spring rolls. John would murder for spring rolls, so Sherlock let him. John didn't see the curious look that Sherlock gave him as he took the spring roll- he was too entranced by James McAvoy's somewhat dodgy accent.

When, however, John intercepted Sherlock's chopsticks, and took a mouthful of noodles, one hand on Sherlock's wrist to direct them to John's mouth, he realised what he was doing.

"Oops," he muttered around the food, blushing slightly at Sherlock's amused stare. "Sorry."

"I hope you don't have hepatitis," he muttered, and John rolled his eyes, but continued eating with the same chopsticks.

They were getting to part of the movie where James McAvoy was prancing around the screen proclaiming  _something,_ where Sherlock started to splutter.

"Oh! Oh, oh!"

"What?" John asked, absently.

"Oh, it's really- ah!- spicy!" Sherlock gasped, flapping his hand around his mouth, and panting. He had a half eaten chilli chicken wing in his hand.

"No, it's not!" John said dismissively.

"Yes it is!" Sherlock cried out. "Look!" And with that, he shoved the chicken wing into John's mouth, fingers pushing insistently at lips.

"Fuck, god, it is!" John stuttered, eyes widening, as the chillis kicked in. "Dear god, someone get me a drink!"

Sherlock leapt up, and in less than ten seconds, was thrusting a beer in John's face, going pink in the cheeks due to the spicy heat. John grabbed the bottle and took a lengthy gulp, before Sherlock snatched it off him and necked it down too.

"Umm?" John asked, the chilli flavour fading, as Sherlock blinked at sniffed. They both looked down at the beer in Sherlock's hand, and then up at each other. "Was there only one there?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "That was the last one."

"Oh, okay," John allowed. He told himself that they wouldn't usually share a drink, but in these circumstances, where John only had one beer left, sharing was acceptable.

Sherlock settled down again, and they passed the beer between themselves, Sherlock finishing off his food, waiting for James McAvoy to just  _die_ already, the plot was so long winded!

Sherlock decided to spread himself across the sofa, so that he had his feet in John's lap, torso twisted so that he could prop up his elbow on the arm rest to support his head, and they watched the film to the end, John satisfied with the slight rise in Sherlock's stomach which had been revealed after his pyjama top had hitched up.

After the James McAvoy film, some Cold War era spy film came on, and John demanded silence. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood to clear away the rubbish. He returned, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, one hand held aloft holding something, the other on his hip.

"What is  _this,_ John Watson?" he asked, glaring at his flatmate.

John looked over, and squinted at the object in Sherlock's hand through the darkness, illuminated only by the flickering light of the TV and Colin Firth's shifty looking face.

"Ice cream?" John said tentatively, wondering if it was some sort of trick question. It had been buy-one-get-one-free at the supermarket the other day on Ben and Jerry's, so he had stocked up on Cookie Dough and Chocolate Fudge Brownie.

"Oh, I see!" he said loftily. "I see! You hid it, knowing I rarely go into the freezer right at the back. You hid it behind the frozen peas, thinking I wouldn't look there! You planned on waiting until I was gone, and then having a special night  _all to yourself,_ without me! I see how it is, Doctor Watson! I see! You glutinous pig! Well, look! I found it, and you're going to have to watch me eat it. All. By. Myself!"

John raised an amused eyebrow at his flatmate, then turned his attention back to the guy with the glasses, who couldn't  _possibly_ be reaping any benefit from swimming in such cold water.

Sherlock flopped back onto the sofa, spoon in hand, and started devouring the tub of Cookie Dough.

"Sherlock, there's really no need to make those noises," John said nonchalantly, after Sherlock's third indecent groan of satisfaction due to a spoonful of ice cream.

Sherlock didn't reply, but stopped with the orgasmic groaning.

They continued watching the film, and after John's insistent whining, without any actual words being formed, Sherlock held out the spoon with a large chunk of cookie and ice cream for John to eat. They continued watching.

Soon, after an hour of Sherlock huffing and puffing (" _Clearly,_ that man is gay.") they established a pattern of Sherlock feeding himself a spoon, then feeding John a spoon. By the time film ended, the tub of ice cream was empty.

They looked at each other, once the credits were rolling, then down to the empty tub, then to the spoon, then back to each other. They both started giggling at the same time.

XXX

888

XXX

Mycroft's idea of a "quite lunch to catch up" actually meant a lavish meal in a fancy restaurant, where the waiters put the napkins on your lap for you. As if he couldn't perform that basic function himself.

Sherlock was sulking, as usual, as any time spent with his brother was time ill-spent, in his opinion. John was trying to mentally calculate how much money he had, and if he could actually pay for his share of the meal. Mycroft was rambling on about an article in The Economist about deductive reasoning, and how, basically, the article was bullshit.

The waiter arrived, and Sherlock ordered the house wine immediately, before they placed their orders.

"So, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said silkily. "How has the clinic job been?"

John blinked a bit, wondering what Mycroft was sugaring him up for, then started a diatribe about irresponsible men shoving various vegetables up their anuses. He felt a sort of pride as Sherlock choked into his wine with laughter, and Mycroft stared aghast.

By the time their meal arrived, Sherlock was a little tipsy, but still managed to send John a text under the table.

_He gets so irritated when I'm drunk. S_

John tried not to react, and sent back a reply surreptitiously.

_Very mature. I'm sure he's worked out your cunning evil plan._

John had spaghetti and clams in a white wine sauce, which he began eating hastily- the last decent meal he'd had was at his girlfriend's, and that had been well over four months ago.

Sherlock was cutting up a lamb chop, and Mycroft was grinning gleefully at his maple roasted, orange glazed turkey.

The conversation steered, unsurprisingly, to a case that Mycroft wanted Sherlock's help in. It required quite a bit of legwork, as was expected, and Mycroft wanted Sherlock to do some investigating in Cuba. John only half listened, to Sherlock's protestations, to Mycroft's bribery, about blackmail, national security, flights, hotels, murder, payment, sun burn, flight times, airlines, a guy called Martin, and whether or not John could come.

"I can't go if John isn't coming," Sherlock said petulantly.

"John," Mycroft sighed. "Will you go with my brother, and do this country a colossal service, to Cuba and solve this investigation?"

John shrugged. "Yeah, sure." He got a glare from Sherlock, but it was short lived.

"Excellent!" Mycroft said, beaming his evil beam again. "Enjoying the food?"

"Oh yes," John nodded. "Here, Sherlock, you've got to try this." He wound the spaghetti around the fork and held it up to Sherlock, who obediently opened his mouth and took the food off John's fork.

"Hmm, yes," he said contemplatively whilst chewing. "You're tasting the white wine sauce, which has truffles in it. You have expensive taste, John."

They both looked up at Mycroft, who appeared seriously alarmed at the little exchange he had just witnessed.

John blushed, and Sherlock grinned at his own lap. They hastily steered the conversation away.

XXX

888

XXX

Greg Lestrade was good for several things, and one of them was pizza and decent beer. Well, that could count as two things, but John wasn't bothering with being specific.

They were all in Greg's living room, celebrating the end of the case Sherlock had solved, the one with the creepy old man stealing young men's pancreases, and so therefore Sherlock had been invited round to "enjoy" the company and to rejoice the imprisonment of a hideous murderer.

Sherlock wasn't particularly enjoying himself, especially as Sally and Anderson had pulled up John's blog on the computer, and were reading out excerpts of the case from it in hysterical voices, so he was moodily sipping a gin and tonic, whilst wondering how the hell John Watson had managed to make him consume more alcohol in one year than he had ever consumed in his life.

"Aaw Sherly," cried Gregson, coming up to Sherlock and slapping him on the back. "Cheer up! Think of all those little boys you saved!"

"Yes,  _thank you,"_ Sherlock said testily, and stepped away.

"Loosen up a bit, like John," Gregson said, pointing to John, who was laughing animatedly with some of Lestrade's team.

Sherlock glared at the room at large, trying not to feel burning jealousy, and the desire to stomp up to Sergeant Jenkins and pull her away from John by her stupid long blonde hair and yell "He's mine!" at the top of his voice. Because that would be irrational.

Lestrade brought out several large pizza containers, and everybody jumped in. Some sort of sixties music was playing, and everybody seemed to be having a great time. It was disgusting.

"I don't understand," Anderson said to him, after Sherlock had tried to melt his mind with a steely glare. "This is  _your_ party. Why are you being so...so...you?"

"Eloquently put, Anderson," Sherlock said snidely.

"I don't understand," Anderson said again, shaking his head. "We'd never have caught him if you hadn't noticed the missing house plant."

Sherlock ignored him. It hadn't been the houseplant that had been important in cracking the case. Anderson was just stupid.

John joined him after a while, rather sickeningly cheerful, and Sherlock wished they were home, alone, watching crap TV together. Alone.

"Why so grumpy?" he asked, nudging his friend. "Come on. Come eat something."

He pulled Sherlock over to the group of people- there were a good fifteen men and women- and pressed a beer into his hands. Pizza was rapidly being eaten.

"What about a drinking game?" Sally suggested, and everybody moaned and groaned, but agreed. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and ignored them all.

"Never have I ever!" Sergeant Jenkins suggested, eyeing up John, and everybody approved.

"Never," Jenkins began, "have I ever, had sex with two men at once."

There were lots of drunken titters, and Lestrade poured out shots of tequila. People stared as Sally grabbed one and gulped it down.

"What is the point in this game?" Sherlock asked John.

"If you  _have_ done what the person says they have  _never_ done, then you have to take a shot. Obviously, whoever has done the least stays the most sober," John supplied. Sherlock's eyes widened as John grabbed a shot and downed it, gaining applause from a couple of people nearby.

"Do they all have to be sexual?" Sherlock asked with distaste.

"No," John said, with a grin.

Sally was sitting next to Jenkins and took her go. "Never have I ever...um...been to a brothel."

Lestrade blushed slightly, as he took a shot. John took a shot. Gregson took a shot. The paramedic who Lestrade always brought with him when Sherlock was involved in a case, Kevin, took a shot. Nobody batted an eyelid. So when Sherlock took a shot, everybody's eyes bugged out.

"It was for a case!" he snapped, and John giggled.

John reached out for a slice of pizza, and took a bite. He automatically held it up for Sherlock to take a bite, only noticing too late the stunned silence of the best of Scotland Yard, staring at the pair as if they were aliens.

"Ooh, Lancaster cheese," Sherlock muttered, and took another bite, holding John's wrist still so he could get a proper bite. The melted cheese managed to get over John's fingers, and it wasn't until Kevin the paramedic spoke, did either of them notice that, yes, it  _was_  slightly weird that he was letting his  _platonic_ flatmate lick cheese off his hand.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Kevin said, and John snatched his hand away like it was burned.

Sherlock coughed, and grabbed his gin and tonic, sipping it demurely.

"Right,  _my_ go!" Lestrade announced. " _Never_ have I ever..."

People waited with anticipation for the deed.

"-had sex with my flatmate."

"Oh, for the love of god!" John cried out, as Sally and most of the group burst out laughing.

"Lestrade, that is most unimaginative."

"Aren't either of you going to take a drink?" Anderson asked, holding up two shots.

"No!" John said vehemently. "We're not sleeping together!"

"Right," Sally said sarcastically.

"Really?" Jenkins said hopefully, glancing at John.

"Really?" Kevin repeated, glancing at Sherlock, and raking his eyes up and down the man.

"Really!" John said, exasperatedly. "God! The lot of you!" He was blushing furiously, determinedly avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"Never have I ever," Sherlock suddenly announced, to change the conversation, "had sex, standing in my parents' shed, propped up on a bucket, with a leaky roof, snowed in, with my cousin."

There was a deafening silence, broken only by;

"Oh, fuck you," Lestrade said bitterly, and took a shot.

"Greg!" John spluttered, grinning, and all the guests erupted in laughter.

The game moved on quite swiftly, and John didn't offer Sherlock any more pizza.

XXX

888

XXX

"Oh, good morning Greg," John muttered drowsily, stepping into the kitchen and rubbing his eyes. Sherlock and Lestrade were sitting at the kitchen table, and Sherlock was drinking tea.

"Morning John. There's been a break in down in Holborn. I'm trying to convince Spock to grace us with his presence," Lestrade said good-humouredly.

"Oh, he's not Spock," John muttered, taking Sherlock's teacup and having a generous gulp. "I figured he's more of a...Klingon, or perhaps...Khan, maybe even Sybok. I haven't decided yet. Oh, Sherlock, you always use too much sugar."

"What on  _Earth_ are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, taking his teacup back, and taking a sip himself. "And I use just enough sugar, thank you very much!"

Lestrade gaped between them.

"What?" they both asked at once.

"N-nothing," Lestrade replied with a shake of his head, as if he were trying to dispel water from his ears.

"So, Holborn?" Sherlock asked, and allowed John to permanently steal his tea.

XXX

888

XXX

"Ah, you must be  _Sherlock!_ So  _lovely_ to meet you!"

Sherlock stood ramrod straight, coming very swiftly to the conclusion that Mrs Watson, John's mother, was the scariest person on Earth. Forget James Moriarty, this woman could fell armies if she felt like it.

She was about five feet and three inches, but somehow Sherlock felt as if she were looming over him. She was wearing a pink dress and had pretty diamond earrings in, and generally looked very unassuming, but the death-glare she was sporting in her hard, cold eyes sent shivers up his spine.

"Yes, Mrs Watson. I'm Sherlock Holmes," he greeted, trying not to show his terror. Sharks could sense fear.

"Mum," John muttered, recognising his mother's behaviour. "Not now."

Mrs Watson led them into the living room, where lots of older men and women were standing around making small talk.

"Lydia, you remember my son," Mrs Watson said silkily in a way that would make Mycroft proud. She was talking to an elderly lady who was standing near her husband. "John, and his _flatmate,_ Sherlock."

"Oh, yes," Lydia said, shaking John's hand. "How very proud of you we all are."

John nodded half-heartedly, then grabbed Sherlock's arm and steered him away towards the kitchen.

"Oh, dear lord, why did I agree to come to this?" he asked with a groan.

"It's your father's birthday," Sherlock reminded him, as if John could have forgotten.

"Yes, but my family is evil. I have an evil family, which is why I never,  _ever_ spend time with them," John muttered, pouring out two cups of lemonade and giving one to Sherlock. "Thank you for coming with me, by the way."

"It's fine," Sherlock dismissed.

They were chivvied out of the kitchen by some of the staff Mrs Watson had hired for her husband's seventieth birthday, and forced to enter the fray. Sherlock stood behind John, who was being greeted by various friends of his parents, and making small talk, repeating the same story.  _Yes, I was shot at war. No, I'm fine. Yes, I live with Sherlock. Yes, he's the famous detective. No, we're not like that._

Soon, Mrs Watson stomped up to them.

"Why am I hearing rumours that you and Sheldon-"

"Sherlock."

" _Whatever,_ are in a relationship! John, fix this immediately. I will not have these allegations in my family!"

"What are you talking about?" John asked incredulously. "I've told them, we're just friends. If they don't believe me, it's not my problem!"

"John, this is not acceptable!" Mrs Watson snapped. Sherlock caught the eye of her husband over her shoulder, who winked at him before walking off to get another glass of wine.

"Acceptable? Mother, your own  _daughter_ isn't here because you deemed her  _unacceptable._ I think you need to get a grasp of what is really important, and what is just your own pride getting in the way!" John said irritably, and grasped Sherlock's arm and stormed off.

They met Mr Watson at the bar, who clapped his son on the shoulder.

"Don't mind her, John, she's just got a bee in her bonnet," he said, and Sherlock could tell he was ever so slightly tipsy.

"Yes, I know Dad," John said sulkily. "But still..."

"Don't let it get to you. I personally think you make a very handsome couple."

And with that he walked off, wine in hand, leaving John gaping after him and a rather perplexed Sherlock.

"Canapé?" Both John and Sherlock jumped as a waiter appeared out of nowhere, thrusting a tray under their noses, one canapé left.

Both reached out to take it, and their fingers brushed.

"Oh, sorry," John mumbled, withdrawing. "Go ahead."

"No, no, you take it," Sherlock replied, also withdrawing. There was a tense moment where they both stared at each other.

"It's yours if you want it," Sherlock said softly.

"I don't want it," John replied, unable to stop looking up at Sherlock's shiny blue eyes.

The waiter huffed, annoyed at the delay, and stalked off. Neither of them got the canapé.

Sherlock placed his right hand at the base of John's head and pulled him closer. "Stop taking my food," he whispered, and pressed a kiss onto John's lips.

"I'm not!" John gasped, once Sherlock pulled back. "Y-you are always taking  _my_ food!"

He lurched forward to rejoin the kiss, pulling on Sherlock's lapel, craning his neck and standing on tiptoes. Sherlock tightened his fingers in John's hair, and placed his other hand on John's shoulder, bringing him closer. It was a sweet, innocent kiss, uninterrupted by any passersby, perfect for their first time.

Sherlock pressed John closer, and coaxed his lips open with his tongue, tasting lemonade on his breath, and latched on, licking carefully at the inside of John's lips and teeth, until John reciprocated, and they both moaned. Sherlock allowed John to take control, and was soon being subjected to a very insistent tongue mapping out the inside of his mouth.

"Oh!" Sherlock gasped when John pulled away with an indecent smacking sound. "Are you sure you're not doing this just to be spiteful towards your mother?"

"No of c-" John started, then stopped and appeared to consider it. "Well, actually, now that you mention it... Come on, let's go have wild, loud sex in my old bedroom."

Sherlock laughed, and stepped away. "You don't want to give these elderly guests a heart attack, John."

"I don't give a monkey's," John said, scowling again. "None of them had the balls to even ask about Harry."

Sherlock took John's hand and stroked it. "Do you want to show me your room anyway? Get away from the old biddies."

John grinned, and pulled Sherlock towards the staircase.

John's room was small, with a single bed in the corner. The sheets were clean and well made, despite no one living in this room for well over twenty years. Clearly Mrs Watson, through her frosty coating, missed her son very much. The room was dust-free and the windows looked as if they were regularly opened. Shelves of books lined the walls, and there was a small wardrobe in the corner. Sherlock looked around, soaking it all in.

"So, you grew up here?" he asked.

"We moved in to this house when I was eleven," John told him. "I needed to be closer to my secondary school."

"Hm. I went to boarding school," Sherlock mumbled. "Only spent Christmas and the Summer at our house in London."

"Whereabouts did you live?"

"Kensington."

"Of course you did," John muttered sarcastically.

Sherlock went up to John's bookshelves, and ran his finger along the spines of the books. He heard John sit down on the tiny bed behind him.

"So," John began.

"So," Sherlock repeated.

He turned around, and faced John who was leaning back on his hands, swinging his legs back and forth.

"I haven't had another boy in my room since I was sixteen," John said, and gave a small giggle.

"Oh yes?" Sherlock asked, advancing slowly.

"Hmm, yes. He was on the school swimming team. Very tall. Called Andrew. Lots of brown hair, and big brown eyes," John said, with a grin. "I ended up shoving him in the wardrobe, with only his underwear on, because my mum had returned home early from a meeting. My, at the time it was such an adventure."

Sherlock snorted, and John grinned up at him. "Hopefully I won't end up in the wardrobe."

"Oh yes? I say, we have about twenty minutes before my mum comes up here, looking for us," John said, glancing at his watch.

"Is that a challenge, Doctor Watson?"

"Nineteen minutes, actually."

Sherlock grinned, and crawled up onto John's lap, straddling him, and working on his buttons of his shirt. John's hands came up to Sherlock's waist, and held him tightly, before finding his lips and kissing him again.

It was strange because it felt like they had been doing this forever. It felt like they had a set out routine, as an old married couple might. It didn't feel odd, or weird. It felt right, despite the fact that, less than an hour earlier, if you had asked John Watson, he would have described his relationship with his flatmate as  _purely platonic._

"How long have we been building up to this?" John gasped, after releasing Sherlock's lips, and shrugging off his shirt.

"Oh, since the pool, at least," Sherlock said conversationally, before getting to work on John's belt.

John smiled, and pushed Sherlock's chin up with his nose, and bit down hard on his flatmate's neck.

"Ah!" Sherlock cried out. "Before the pool, you weren't constantly stealing my food."

"The food has nothing to do with the fact I want to fuck you violently up against a wall," John muttered, stopping Sherlock's futile movements on his belt, and grasping the detective by the shoulders. In a second, the younger man had been flipped onto his back, and John was sucking hungrily at Sherlock's neck.

"Oh,  _I_  see. John, we've been in a relationship for months, and neither of us knew it," Sherlock said, quite calmly, despite the fact his pulse was sky-rocketing, and things were starting to stir where they hadn't stirred in quite some time. He wrapped his legs around John's waist as best he could in tailored trousers, and held on to John's shoulders. The old war wound was the biggest of a medley of scars littered across John's upper body, and he traced it with his index finger. John, in the mean time, was slowly making a long chain of love bites up Sherlock's neck, around his law, and up to his lips, where he nipped Sherlock's full lower lip gently, then pried his tongue into Sherlock's mouth again, thrusting it deeper until Sherlock had to pull away to breathe.

"When was the last time you kissed someone?" John asked, starting to undo Sherlock's buttons too. "Properly?"

"Umm, when I was about twenty. She was drunk. I was high. She had pretty hair, though," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "It smelt like lavender."

"Definitely high," John said with a snort. "Seriously? Not since you were twenty? What about sex?"

"Ah. That would be with Victor, in Montpellier, when I was twenty eight. We hadn't seen each other in ten years, and I had about an hour to get to the airport, so we rather rushed the whole affair."

John giggled. "A one hour meeting with an ex lover? That's not very romantic?"

"I'm not the romantic type," Sherlock said, seriously, but John just rolled his eyes.

"I prefer the Sherlock Holmes version of romance anyway," John told him, with a chaste kiss. "Nothing worse than long evenings watching Love Actually and feeding tissues to a girl who probably won't sleep with you anyway."

Sherlock chuckled, and brought his hands around to cup John's head, pulling him down for yet another wet, filthy kiss.

By the time John finally had Sherlock's shirt off, both were red raced, swollen-lipped and grinning like fools. They also had thirty seconds to hastily put their shirts back on because John's estimate of twenty minutes was hideously miscalculated.

Mrs Watson burst into the bedroom just as Sherlock fixed his collar. She flounced out of the room, hissing "Disgraceful!" and "Unnatural!" and "With guests just downstairs!" as John and Sherlock fell onto each other with laughter.

Their taxi ride home was done in silence. They entered their flat in equal silence. John took Sherlock's hand and led him upstairs to his room, where he shut the door behind them decisively, and turned to look at his flatmate whilst leaning against the door.

"Aren't you worried?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"No," John replied honestly. "I trust you, therefore it works."

"All right," Sherlock nodded. "It works."

" _We_ work," John clarified. "We were just too stupid to notice."

Sherlock nodded again. "Yes. Stupid."

John stepped forward and grasped Sherlock's head, pulling him down for another kiss. Sherlock wrapped long fingers around John's hips, and they melted together.

John had his fingers wrapped tightly in Sherlock's hair, whilst being groped rather shamelessly, when Mrs Hudson called from downstairs.

"Boys? Are you upstairs?" she shouted.

Sherlock pulled away with a sucking noise that was really rather indecent, and sighed.

"Yes!" he yelled back, but didn't let go of John.

"I have cookies!" she yelled back, and John tried not to think of Howard Wolowitz and his mother from The Big Bang Theory. "I want you to try them before I give them to the bakery!"

"We're kind of  _busy_ Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock yelled in response, and John couldn't help giggling like a child.

There was silence, and then: "I'll leave them outside your door!"

"Thank you Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock shouted, and rolled his eyes fondly.

"Remember to be saf-"

"Yes  _thank you_ Mrs Hudson!" John yelled, going a hideous shade of red, and spluttering slightly.

They heard a small chuckle, but then there was silence.

"All for some cookies," Sherlock muttered, and then ducked down for another kiss.

"Actually," John leaned away, and Sherlock's mouth caught the edge of his chin. "I wouldn't mind some cookies."

"Seriously?" Sherlock asked, looking slightly affronted. "Cookies? Seriously? You are putting off a night of sex for cookies?"

John just raised his eyebrows in a pleading manner, until Sherlock huffed and pushed John away from him. "Fine! But I'm not going to get them!" and he flopped face-down on John's bed.

John shamelessly pressed his hand against that ridiculous arse and bent to give a kiss to Sherlock's exposed neck. "Darling, with a behind like yours, you have no reason to feel second best to a cookie."

Sherlock shook his head into the covers like a child, but John knew when the strop was real, and when Sherlock was just messing about.

In a quick second, John dashed down the stairs, grabbed the plate of hot chocolate chip cookies Mrs Hudson had left them, and then hurried back up. Sherlock had flipped over, and was humming whilst tracing patterns in the ceiling with his eyes. His hair was everywhere, and his legs drooped over the side of the bed.

John climbed up on top of him, and held aloft the plate. "Cookie?"

"Yes, banana-cake?"

"Why are  _you_ cookie, and I'm  _banana cake_?" John asked, picking up a cookie and snapping it in half. It was gloriously gooey.

"What would you prefer, honey-dumpling?"

"If you say that again, I'll do something bad," John warned, popping some cookie into his mouth, and then offering a morsel to Sherlock, who raised his head off the bed for a moment to snag it from John's fingers. Devilish teeth scraped against the pads of John's fingers, a hot tongue licked along them, as sinful lips wrapped around the digits and Sherlock sucked.

"Oh yeah?" he asked, once he had swallowed the cookie.

John gulped, and nodded feebly, before breaking off more cookie and thrusting it under Sherlock's nose.

John was quickly getting into a bit of a situation, and his mouth was sticky from the sugar. Sherlock was willingly taking all the food John was giving him, but John knew they couldn't both eat a whole plateful of cookies and not get sick.

He stopped after Sherlock had eaten three cookies, and then pushed the plate away from them, before lying on top of his...his...person-y thing (he'd worry about labels later) and pulling Sherlock into another kiss. Long fingered hands crept up John's thighs, which were straddling Sherlock's hips, and gripped tightly, whilst John held Sherlock's face down and kissed him deeply. Sherlock tasted of sugar and chocolate and John was slowly becoming intoxicated. Sherlock's tongue was hot and silkily slick and he was making the most absorbing whimpering, mewling noises as John ravished his mouth.

"Oh!" he gasped when John backed up to allow him to breathe. "If I had known sharing your food would end up with-"

"Shh," John shushed him and descended again.

He was insistently aroused, and was absently grinding down onto Sherlock's abdomen, whilst Sherlock rutted up onto him, both getting more and more persistent. Their lips were mashed together, and John's nose was being squished against those  _preposterous_ cheekbones, and his fingers were entangled in Sherlock's hair, tugging insistently in the hopes to elicit more little yelps and moans, whilst the ongoing exchange of saliva, which should have disgusted Sherlock, but hadn't been bothering him since that first time years ago when they had shared a slice of toast, was being perpetrated by two tongues.

John unlatched from Sherlock's mouth, and they both gasped, before John sank his teeth into that neck, and Sherlock squealed.

"John!" he cried out. "Oh, god, John."

John sucked viciously, grasping the nape of Sherlock's neck and yanking it upwards so that his back arched and his head fell backwards, as the poor man sobbed and moaned.

"Oh, John! Oh, my, John, god!" he groaned. "I-I-"

John trailed one hand down Sherlock's chest as he continued sucking and biting, and started undoing the silk shirt, one button at a time.

"I- I need..." Sherlock gasped.

"What do you need?" John asked, releasing his neck, which was bright red and wet.

"I-I need," Sherlock stuttered, as John placed feathery kisses along the neck he had just ravaged. "I really need..."

"Hmm?" John prompted.

"I really need a drink."

John dropped his neck, and Sherlock's shoulders and head fell back onto the bed. "A drink?"

"Yes. A drink. The cookies have made me thirsty."

John blinked down at the gorgeous, impossible, crazy man, who widened his eyes in an attempt to sway John.

John raised one eyebrow, and Sherlock  _tried_ to be cute. It came out slightly psychotic.

"Okay, stop that. You couldn't do puppy dog eyes if you tried," John told him, and pressed a thumb along Sherlock's eyebrow and down to his bottom lip. "I'll go make tea."

"Ah, John, you're such a perfect little pumpkin-pie."

"Whatever you say, my little bakewell tart. You stay here and wait for me to bring you your tea, and fantasise about how hard I'm going to fuck you once you've finished."

"Ooh, John, I could  _murder_ for a bakewell tart."

John just smiled, and kissed his cheek before hopping off the bed and heading downstairs to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

Just the one should do enough for both of them.

**The End!**

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? I hope you liked it!


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